by Linnea May
“Thank you,” I say, nonetheless. “I’m meeting up with them tonight. I really hope they’ll hire me for the wedding, too.”
We reach our floor and the elevator doors open, freeing us from our unpleasant confinement.
“Well, good for you,” Benjamin snorts, as he strides through the door of our suite.
Chapter II
Kingston
I watch as Gloria twists a strand of her platinum blond hair between her fingers, absentmindedly staring at her phone through her thick fake eyelashes. She’s sitting across the drawing room from me with her legs crossed, dressed in a sharp beige new women’s suit that I’ve never seen on her before. I wouldn’t be surprised if she bought it just for this meeting. Her earrings and matching necklace, both in that heavy gold tone I hate so much, also look new to me. Her thin lips are painted a deep red, matching her strong eye makeup and the rouge on her young cheeks, making her look so much older than she is.
Gloria is only 25 years old, but today her hair is styled like that of a middle-aged high society lady. Too similar to our mother’s hair. It looks fucking ridiculous, and I know she only does it to please our stuck-up families.
She’s playing a game. We both are. But she’s so much better at this than I am.
“Don’t you think we should be sitting next to each other?” she says, without looking up from her phone.
I huff. “I doubt it’ll make a difference.”
She looks up, piercing me with her steel blue eyes.
“I think it does,” she hisses. “Fiancé.”
She pats on the cushions next to her, inviting me to sit beside her as if I was a trained puppy.
I glare at her without moving an inch from my armchair on the other side of the seating area. This whole arrangement is ridiculous enough as it is, I won’t make it any more believable by sitting next to the woman I’m supposed to marry per my parents’ wishes. They both know that I don’t care for Gloria the way a man should care for his wife-to-be – and it doesn’t matter to them.
“It worked for us,” they keep saying. Marriage is not much more than a business agreement in their eyes, and in the eyes of the circles in which my family socializes. This is all the more true for firstborns like me. My younger brother fled to the West Coast when he started college, that lucky bastard. The responsibility is not his to take on, and he pretty much gets to do whatever he pleases over there.
It’s all on me. The main heir, my father’s successor to the family empire.
I wouldn’t be doing this if my parents hadn’t threatened to take this position away from me. They’ve been pestering me to settle down and lose my promiscuous ways ever since I graduated from college and became CEO of one of our family’s shipping companies. I’m good at what I do, and I enjoy being the boss. The way I see it, I’m not only able to continue the company’s success, but make it even greater, because unlike my aging father, I’m capable of changing with the times. Things have changed, even in our traditional and century-old business, but he doesn‘t understand most of these changes. It‘s hurtful to the company, but every time I bring it up in front of him, he gets enraged.
I can‘t have our fortune destroyed by old man failures, but he refused to give me full control unless I‘m willing to get married, settle down, and produce family heirs.
So, here we are. Gloria Waldorf and me. We’ve known each other since childhood, and she’s one of the few women in my social circle who I’ve never hooked up with. That’s how much I loathe that woman. She’s superficial, manipulative, and there’s not a single likable thing about her personality. She’s shallow, and her snootiness and nosiness leads her to get involved in other people’s business. Everything she says is either gossip, spiteful comments, or commands, because she’s used to being served and treated like a princess. She always gets what she wants, and that includes a number of men. That may be the only thing we have in common, the promiscuity.
It may be surprising that nothing ever happened between us, even after our engagement was announced. However, next to my dislike for her, we also grew up together, which makes her seem more like a hated sister to me. Also, I’m simply not attracted to her with her excessive jewelry, the fake lashes, and the dyed platinum blond hair. The worst thing is that she smells like my mother because they both bathe in a similarly obtrusive stench of flowery perfume every day.
Yet, all of that makes her perfect to become my wife.
I know love is not for me. I haven’t worked on my body this hard to be locked up in a cage, allowed to have just one woman for the rest of my life. I’m a player, and I have my looks and my wealth working for me. It’s almost too easy sometimes because girls are easy. They all want the same thing, and I can give it to them. Three nights, three fucks, and never sleeping in the same bed - those are my limits. After that, I’m done with them. Always. I don’t care if they’re not done with me, but a few dodged phone calls usually gets the message across.
Seeing as neither Gloria nor I are in this for the love and the hellhole that’s monogamy, I don’t see why there’d be a problem for both of us to continue our way of living, as long as we keep it secret from our overly conservative parents.
It’s perfect. All I have to endure is the wedding and the damn preparations and parties that come with it. Our families are going all out with this, and we – the well-trained puppets that we are - go along with everything they want.
I hate every minute of this bizarre circus, and I hate even more that they want to include us in every single step of the planning process, thus robbing me of valuable time that could be spent elsewhere. Between a pretty girl’s legs, for example. I picked up a particularly cute one at the VIP section in a club a few nights ago. A cute brunette with huge eyes and firm tits that she wants me to believe are real, but I can’t be fooled. I’m not a fan of fake, but those perky tits drive me insane. I can’t wait to see them bouncing up and down again as that little slut rides my thick cock into oblivion.
Alas, I have to waste my Friday evening with this idiotic meeting to discuss the details of our upcoming engagement party in a few weeks. We already discussed the guest list and parts of the catering menu today, both of which took hours to decide because Gloria decided to suddenly have an opinion on these things and engaged in long debates with both of our mothers.
Gloria and I were the first to return to the drawing room to discuss the last matter for today: the musical accompaniment. My mother is a trained actress and attended Juilliard School before she married my father. She feels very close to her alma mater and insisted on hiring one of their students to accompany the engagement party and possibly every event that follows.
My father and both of Gloria’s parents were not supportive of the idea, but they filed it under my mother’s well-known whimsical traits and decided to let her have this one, if the student managed to convince us with his or her skills.
That’s why we’re having this ridiculous get-together on a Friday evening. I know Gloria and I share the sentiment of not wanting to be here. She keeps checking her costly watch again and again.
“Where is everybody?” she asks in a nagging voice that drills through my skull.
However, her question is legit. Both of our parents are late, which is very unusual for them.
The double door behind my back squeaks and Gloria lifts her eyes. Her annoyed frown is instantly replaced by a bright smile as she gets up from the sofa she’s been sitting on.
I follow her lead and get up myself, fixing my suit in the process, as I turn around to face the door. Gloria’s parents enter the room, greeting us with polite nods as they walk in. They’re followed by my father and my mother - and her.
The girl who’ll rob me of my sanity.
Chapter III
Elodie
Mrs. Abrams is a sweetheart. My heart was about to jump out of my chest when I rang the bell at the front door of the Abrams‘ townhouse. To my surprise, it was Mrs. Abrams herself who opened the door for me,
welcoming me in with a big smile. For some reason, I expected a servant to take care of that. Isn’t that what super rich people spend their money on?
This family is beyond super rich, though. I knew this before, but I haven’t been able to grasp the extent of their wealth until now that I’m stepping into their home. Located right between Park and Lexington avenues, the townhouse boasts a large center entry set in a limestone base and white brick upper stories highlighted by two large, arched windows on the parlor floor. When entering, one steps into a large entrance hall with stairs leading to the upper floors on the left, next to an elevator. An elevator! This is a single family home with five stories and its own elevator!
I try not to gawk as Mrs. Abrams introduces me to her husband and another middle-aged couple who turn out to be the bride’s parents. All four of them are the epitome of Upper East Side high society when it comes to their looks. The women are both dressed in suit ensembles, accompanied by heavy gold jewelry that - no doubt - costs more than my monthly rent. Maybe even half a year‘s worth of rent. Their make-up and hairstyle are so similar that one could mistake them for siblings, except for the fact that Mrs. Abrams‘ hair is a dark auburn color while Mrs. Waldorf is a light blonde. The fathers, both men with graying hair and round bellies, are dressed in tailored suits and sporting clunky watches.
All four of them make me feel horribly under-dressed, even though I’m wearing my most formal dress, a light beige formal-type dress with a lace design that ends just above my knees. I bought it years ago at a second-hand store and have been using it ever since for most of my formal engagements, even performances. It looks pretty worn-out by now, but there’s nothing I can do about it, as I live from hand to mouth every single month since I’ve moved to New York. It’s the only formal piece I own, and if this family is to hire me for more than one occasion, I will have to spend some of my earnings to buy another dress so as not to embarrass myself. The same goes for my shoes, an old pair of white ballerinas that used to be chic about a decade ago. Both my dress and my shoes are brand name products, but they were used when I bought them and have suffered through many occasions and performances throughout my time at college.
“So, you’re in your final year at Juilliard I hear?” Mrs. Abrams asks in a high-pitched voice as I follow her and the others to the back of the townhouse.
“Yes, I am,” I reply, incapable of saying anything other than that, because my head is filled with “Holy shit!” exclamations at every step we take. The entire home is penetrated by light thanks to the insanely high ceilings, open spaces and windows, and the decor is out of this world exquisite and surprisingly tasteful. As the family leads me to the other side of the first floor, I realize that the square footage of this building must be a lot bigger than one would expect from the outside.
“You know, I’m a Juilliard alumnus myself,” Mrs. Abrams says, catching my attention.
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” I reply truthfully.
She smiles at me. “Yes, very few people do. I majored in drama, but I haven’t acted in decades.”
Mrs. Abrams pauses and lets out a nostalgic sigh. “Sometimes I really miss it.”
Before I can come up with a reply, we pass through beautifully adorned french doors, and our short conversation is interrupted by the appearances of what I assume to be the happy couple.
“Miss Hill,” Mrs. Abrams says, as we enter the room. “May I introduce you to my son, Kingston, and his beautiful fiancée, Gloria.”
She gestures towards the two of them, and I stand awkwardly as they rise from their seats and approach me. Neither of them looks particularly happy to see me. The woman, who is probably about my age but appears to be much older with the way she’s styled up, barely manages to smile as she takes my hand, and the groom…
When he shakes my hand, squeezing it a little too hard for my comfort, it feels as if he shoots an electric jolt through my system.
He is devastatingly handsome.
I’ve tried not to gawk since I entered this home, but now that I lay eyes on him, I can’t help but lose control of myself. He’s too much, too much of everything. His black hair is cut in a sideswept undercut, gelled to the side with a few strands falling into his handsome face. Just like the fathers, he’s wearing a tailored suit in dark gray, but the way his jacket stretches around his arms and chest, it is a reliable telltale of the buff stature hidden beneath. He fixates on me through dark gray eyes, the hint of a smirk appearing on his face, as he welcomes me.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hill,” he says. I get weak in the knees as his deep voice radiates through the hall-like sitting room.
Holy shit. How on earth am I supposed to make a good impression with this man around? And he’s about to get married, too!
My voice is nothing but a hoarse screech when I try to give him a reply, but no one seems to notice or care.
“Please, let’s sit down,” Mrs. Abrams says, gesturing towards the seating area where the couple has been waiting for us.
I hesitate for a moment, unsure where to sit, and so I wait for everyone else to take their seats. As it turns out, there is no specific sitting order except for the fact that Mrs. Abrams gestures toward a noble armchair with white cushioning and a wooden frame for me to sit in. The chair is placed next to an array of two sofas and two other armchairs of a similar design, all of them arranged around a white coffee table. I notice that each of the parents sit together on the sofas, while Gloria and Kingston quickly decide on the armchairs, sitting opposite of each other - and closest to me.
I gulp and sincerely hope that no one notices my nervousness. I’m carrying my music sheets with me in a black folder and I place it in my lap, my fingers clasping around it as if I’m holding on for dear life.
“No need to be nervous, Miss Hill,” Mrs. Abrams says, casting me a warm smile. “We just want to have a little chat to get to know you a little and exchange some ideas about the event we intend to hire you for.”
“Sure,” I say.
I can feel his intense dark eyes on me and see him from the corner of my eye. Why is he staring at me like this? When I turn my head to catch his eyes, I expect him to look away, as most people would do when they’re caught staring. But he doesn’t. Our eyes lock onto each other for a few awkward seconds, before I give in and evade his gaze.
“Tell us a little about yourself,” Mr. Waldorf, the bride’s father, says. His tone is the complete opposite of Mrs. Abrams. He’s firm and serious, not showing even the hint of a smile as he speaks to me.
“Um, about myself?” I ask, unsure what these people need to know about me other than what kind of music I can provide for them. “Well, as for my repertoire, I-”
“No, no,” Mrs. Waldorf interrupts. “We’ll talk about that later. Tell us a little about yourself. Where are you from?”
I regard her with a confused expression. I didn’t expect this to be a proper interview and had prepared for playing more than speaking.
“I’m from New York,” I say. “Born and raised. Brooklyn.”
“That’s not New York,” Gloria interjects, eyeing her thickly painted finger nails.
“Gloria!” her mother says, casting her a warning look. “Don’t be rude.”
Gloria rolls her eyes and throws me a disgusted look before she goes back to examining her fingernails, not afraid to show how little she cares about my feelings.
What a bitch.
“Brooklyn, that’s… nice,” Mrs. Abrams says, sounding a bit helpless. “And your parents, are they also musicians?”
My mother was a drug addict who took off with her lover when I was three years old, that is if I am to believe my father. According to him, she may have died of an overdose not long after leaving us. But I don’t know if I can trust his words, considering that he’s an alcoholic himself and never forgave my mother for leaving him alone with me. I have no memories of her and never tried to find her. If what little my father told me about her is true, I don’t think I’m mis
sing out on anything.
He took care of me as well as he could, but that doesn’t say a lot about his parenting skills. I haven’t seen him for months, and I only check up on him once in a while to make sure that he’s still alive and doing okay. Our interaction is heavily dependent on what kind of woman he is dating at the time. The bitchier they are, the less I hear from him.
“Um, no,” I say, hoping that no one presses me on the matter.
“When did you start taking piano lessons?” Mr. Waldorf wants to know.
“Well, I didn’t take proper lessons until junior high school,” I admit. “But I’ve played the piano long before that.”
My reply is met with awkward silence. I know that most serious musicians started their lessons way younger than that, often even before they started school, but I didn’t have that opportunity. We had no money for lessons and no piano at home. All I had was Miss Knight, an elementary teacher who took pity on me and let me play the piano at our school. She even bought me sheet music and taught me a few lessons for free until I graduated. She was also the one who got me started on applying for scholarships to finance my musical education and finally take lessons at the age of fourteen.
“She made it into Juilliard, so she must be good,” Mrs. Abrams comes to my rescue. “They only take the best.”
“I could play something,” I suggest, lifting the folder with my sheets. “Just to give you an idea of my portfolio.”
I was told that the family owns a grand piano, as every self-respecting family on the Upper East Side does. Aside from my anxiety to meet the family, I have been looking forward to playing on their piano, as I’m sure it must be a more exquisite instrument than any other I’ve ever played.
And that assumption doesn’t even come close to the truth.
Chapter IV
Kingston
I watch as our little piano girl examines our Steinway concert grand piano, her thin fingers caressing the keys, but barely touching them, as if she was afraid she could hurt them. All eyes are on her, observing her peculiar behavior as she fondles the instrument. No one has said a word since we brought her up to the music room, a room that features nothing but the spic and span grand piano surrounded by white walls and a few armchairs lined up against the wall opposite the windows.